Authenticity
by MykEsprit
Summary: Acting is a nuanced art—a tilt of an eyebrow or a shadow of a teasing smile could elevate a good performance to a great performance. This was at the forefront of their thoughts when they arrived for their fake date at the annual Ministry ball. They each had their own agenda, of course. Written for Tomione Smutfest.


**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.**

Written for Tomione Smutfest-thanks to the amazing weestarmeggie for hosting this event!

Much love to Mrs. Ren for alpha reading this fic!

Prompt: Fake Dating

Trigger Warning: Smut

* * *

 **Authenticity**

* * *

Acting is a nuanced art—a tilt of an eyebrow or a shadow of a teasing smile could elevate a good performance to a _great_ performance.

This was at the forefront of their thoughts when they arrived at the annual Ministry ball. They each had their own agenda, of course: Tom needed her to keep Bellatrix from trailing him around the ballroom like a lovesick pup, and Hermione wanted him there to show that she was _not_ an unlovable, frigid bitch, Ron Weasley!

In either case, a solid, award-worthy performance was necessary for everyone to believe they were together. They both accepted this with certainty, for Hermione and Tom _never_ backed down from a challenge—and they were perfectionists, to boot.

As they ascended the steps towards the ballroom, Tom grabbed Hermione's hand. She paused and glanced down where their fingers intertwined.

Tom leaned in to whisper in her ear. "For authenticity," he said. A ghost of a smirk passed over his features.

"Of course," she agreed. She squeezed his fingers briefly before leading the way into the ostentatious ballroom.

* * *

Bellatrix's dark gaze followed them everywhere, alternating between razor-sharp when pointed at Hermione and molten and heavy when it settled on Tom. The heat of Bellatrix's longing was obvious only to absolutely _everyone_ in attendance. Even the waiting staff flushed under the collars of their standard white tuxedos as Bellatrix undressed Tom with her eyes from across the hall.

While she could not be blamed for having the desire to do so—Tom in his black formal robes was a sight more appetizing than the room-temperature canapes in circulation—Hermione had enough. The next time Bellatrix's manic eyes focused on her, she placed a palm on Tom's chest. Her fingers traced his lapel at a slow, deliberate pace.

Tom's chest hitched on contact; his eyebrow twitched infinitesimally.

"Authenticity," Hermione murmured, nudging her chin towards the obtrusive witch.

Bellatrix paled to a sickly shade of white. She huffed out of the room in a flurry of black satin.

A low chuckle rumbled through Tom's chest. "Thank you."

* * *

Ron Weasley was not a subtle man; for the past half hour, he had been circling them like a vulture, getting closer to his ex-wife with each revolution.

Unfortunately for him, Tom Riddle was not a man to suffer fools, particularly those who treated women like Hermione as though they were entrees at a grand banquet—ready and waiting whenever he was done sampling other courses.

Tom could also be blatant, and so he met Weasley's obtuse antics with a blunt gesture of his own.

As they conversed with the head of Magical Games and Sports, Tom reached behind Hermione, placing a firm hand on her hip and pulling her flush against his side.

Hermione looked up at him with a question in her eyes.

He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, "We've got an audience."

Discreetly, she scanned the room. Ron stood only metres away, glaring at them as he argued with a flustered Harry.

"Authenticity?" she asked quietly.

"Authenticity," Tom replied, sealing the word by pressing his lips against her temple.

A commotion turned their heads—Harry gripped Ron by the elbows as the red-faced ex-husband yelled obscenities. "Fucking _hell_ —"

It took three security guards to escort the belligerent man; and as they dragged him out of the room, Tom gave him a friendly wave goodbye.

* * *

A lazy melody played. Couples on the dance floor swayed, and a dozen colorful ballgown skirts swished hypnotically.

Tom held his hand out. "Dance with me."

With a polite smile, Hermione placed her right hand in his while her left picked up her burgundy skirt. When they reached the middle of the dance floor, he put his hands on the sides of her waist.

They danced, not a word uttered between them. Instead, he gazed into her eyes—large and brown, though the kind of brown that hid veins of gold. He was mesmerized by them, pulled in like a magnet to the metallic flecks of her gaze. Instinctively, his hands moved to the small of her back, and he closed the distance between them.

Hermione looked around, confusion settling on her brow.

"What are you doing?" Tom asked.

"Trying to figure out who our audience is this time." She peered over his shoulder.

"What do you mean?"

Her gaze flickered to his face. "For _this_." She gestured between them. "Someone's watching us, right? Who else would you need to prove the authenticity of our relationship?"

Tom reached up; the tips of his fingers trailed down her cheek.

"Tom?" she whispered. Her eyes widened—not with alarm but hesitation.

Hesitant about what, Tom could only guess; and at the risk of getting slapped in the face, he took a calculated guess and leaned down, catching her lips in a sensual kiss.

When he pulled back, Hermione's eyes were rounded with surprise. "Authenticity?"

His brought his lips close to her ear and whispered, "That's the most authentic thing I've done all evening."

And he captured her lips again.

* * *

It was good to be the Minister for Magic. The burden of responsibilities aside, the title came with a spacious office, and that's where they stumbled into as the band played a lively jive on the other side of the Ministry building.

"Couch," Hermione ordered as Tom's teeth found a sensitive spot on her neck. She walked backwards in the dark to where it was situated.

The furniture was chosen for both comfort and style, with its wide, accommodating cushions and soft, inviting leather. It was bound to be cool to the touch, though neither was too worried—their anticipated friction would no doubt take care of that problem rather easily.

Tom hummed in acquiescence, letting himself be led. He was much too preoccupied to think about what his feet were doing—not while his hands were busy undoing the row of tiny buttons along Hermione's back and his mouth was diligently finding the patches of skin that made her moan.

They toppled onto the couch, wrestling for the top position.

Eventually, Tom deferred—one, because it was _her_ office; and two, because the glint in her metallic eyes as she straddled him was the single, most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons of her bodice, excitement making them clumsy.

"Wizard," Hermione reminded him, tracing the outline of his wand tucked inside his formal robe.

Tom shook his head. While magic was good and efficient, it was too clean and precise and sterile. It didn't reflect the feelings burning through his veins—passion and violence, and unbridled, unimpeded _wanting_. His fingers clutched either side of the line of buttons, and with a satisfying rip, freed Hermione of her bodice.

Her sharp, surprised gasp pierced the air while the buttons fell in staccato on the hardwood floor.

Despite his eagerness to divest her of her bodice, Tom took his time pushing the material down to her waist. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he exposed her skin one inch at a time.

His lingering pace drove her mad—her breasts ached for his hands and her nipples strained for his tongue—but she stopped her impatient hands from shoving her clothing down. His gaze—dark and hungry and carnal—was, in itself, an aphrodisiac that pushed her to the edge.

"Tom," she said—a growl, a command, and a plea.

With a final tug, he liberated her eager breasts, and the cool night air gave her skin a fleeting kiss before his warm hands cupped the generous mounds. His fingers trailed the undersides of her breasts, and his thumbs swiped at each dark pink nipple.

Then, his hands left her breasts; before she could complain, Tom grabbed her hips and jerked her forward. The apex of her thighs ground against his hard length at the same time as his lips descended on a pert nipple.

Magic—he must have been using magic; for if the ministrations of his tongue and his teeth and his lips could not be categorized as such, then she had no _fucking_ idea what else to call it.

It was several moments of throwing her head back and moaning incoherently and grinding against the firmness of him that she decided her hands should do more than clutch the back of the sofa. She groped his shoulders, finding purchase in the heavy fabric of his robe. She shoved it down his arms; his shirt soon followed.

Her fingers eagerly memorized the topography of his body—the ridges of his collarbones, the hard planes of his chest, the crests of his tensed abdominal muscles. She tracked the midline valley of his abs, all the way down until she reached the buttons of his pants.

In two seconds, he was free. She wrapped her hands around his girth, one on top of the other.

His agonized groan filled the room. She pumped her hands, up and down, the fingers of her top hand teasing the soft flesh of his head.

" _Fuck_ ," he growled. His hand lunged underneath her voluminous skirt. Triumph rose in his chest when his fingers found her ready. "I need to have you," he rasped, " _now_."

Hermione gave a sharp nod—and then he lifted her up. He couldn't take a single second to strip her of her panties; he shunted the dampened piece of cloth to the side and poised her over his throbbing member.

He lowered her down slowly.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he filled and stretched and pervaded her. When she finally reached the base of his shaft, she held still, enjoying the heavy sensation of him inside her.

Tom's head thumped against the back of the couch. "For fuck's sake," he begged, " _please move_."

With a breathy laugh, Hermione obeyed him. She began with a slow rhythm, controlled and fastidious—though it didn't take long until her movements became erratic. Up, down, forwards and backwards, with enough force to make the couch thud and skid on the floor as she chased and climbed and reached the summit of her pleasure.

Hermione threw her head back and opened her mouth—to scream or to gasp or to escape her corporeal form. Perhaps all three at once. She no longer had any control of her body as she thrashed against him.

A growl reached her ears, and hands clutched her hips as Tom took control.

He lifted her and thrust her down, arching his hips to meet her. The sounds of flesh smacking flesh echoed in the cavernous office. He pulled her up and brought her crashing down over and over again, rough and pounding.

With each thrust, he grew harder—impossibly so, until he grunted her name and sunk his teeth at the base of her neck.

The sensation shot her up into the stratosphere.

When she returned to her body, she was greeted with his soft lips trailing kisses along her shoulder. He murmured something against her skin.

"Hmm?" She lifted her heavy eyelids and found a smile playing Tom's lips.

"I said, how do you feel?"

Her lips stretched into a satisfied grin. "Pretty good," she crooned, and, in a quieter tone, "You?"

"Fantastic." He leaned forward and caught her lips in a gentle kiss.

For a while, they remained that way—placing tender kisses on the other like a bashful couple. Their hands grazed over each other, affectionate and reverent. The pad of his thumb brushed the top of her cheekbone. Her fingers curled into his thick, dark hair.

He was still inside her, though, and it didn't take long until his member began to awaken.

Thrill shot through her as her body responded to his—but the muffled strains of the band wafted through the walls.

Hermione rested her forehead against his. "We should probably go back," she said, unable to keep the disappointment and frustration from her voice.

Tom sighed. "Are you sure?"

Reluctantly, she nodded. "The Minister for Magic, sneaking to her office with her partner in the middle of an official function," she teased, "right after a heavy make-out session on the dance floor? I'm sure the rumors circulated the room twice over."

"I certainly hope so," Tom said as she got up from his lap. "And your bloody ex-husband better believe those rumors or the next time this happens, I'll make sure he's here to witness it."

Hermione had pulled out her wand, intending to place a contraceptive and protection spell on their persons; her hand froze mid-swish. "'Next time?'" she whispered.

He tilted his head a fraction. "Won't there be?"

She chuckled as her hand relaxed. "Looking forward to it." After the protective spells were done, she flicked her wrist again. Tiny buttons flew and found their positions on her bodice. "I wouldn't threaten the same with Bellatrix, though." Her lips twisted into a grimace. "It might just get her off."

As he shrugged his shirt on, he shuddered theatrically. "Very true."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!**


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